- Layla Saidi :
Four years had passed since I ran away.
I still remembered that night — the way the cold air hit my face as I slipped out the door, how my heart pounded with every step away from that house. I didn't look back. I got on the bus, any bus that was going far enough, anywhere but there. The city I ended up in was Los Angeles — vast, sprawling, and intimidating in ways I hadn't imagined.
LA was expensive. Everything was expensive. From the moment I stepped off the bus, I knew surviving here would be a battle.
I had barely any money left — just what I had snatched in that hurried escape. I needed to vanish completely. The first thing I did was sell my phone. It was too risky to keep it. I didn't want my family to track me, call me, or find out where I was. Without the phone, I was cut off from the world, but it was the price I had to pay for freedom.
Next, I did something that felt like erasing my old self. I took a pair of scissors and chopped off my long hair, the hair that my mother had always been so proud of, the hair that everyone in my hometown recognized. Now it was short, messy, and unrecognizable. I looked in the cracked mirror of a public restroom and barely recognized the girl staring back.
My belly was still flat — no sign of the life growing inside me yet. But I knew that would change.
I started searching for work. Every day, I wandered through streets crowded with strangers, handing out resumes, begging for a chance. But no one would hire me. No one wanted a girl with no references, no experience, no stable address. I was invisible, a ghost slipping through the cracks of this city.
For months, I had no place to call home. I found a spot behind an old brick building, near a back alley where no one looked twice. It wasn't much, but it was shelter. I learned to sleep with one eye open, curled up in my threadbare jacket.
Food was the hardest part. I was determined not to waste my money on rent or fancy meals. I rationed everything, buying only what was necessary to keep me and the baby alive. Fresh fruits when I could afford them, a loaf of bread, cans of beans. Every bite was measured, every meal a small victory.
My body grew weaker. My belly began to swell, a soft curve that was slowly becoming impossible to hide. And with it, my desperation deepened. People started avoiding me — the way they looked when they saw the baby bump, the way job interviews ended with polite refusals.
Then, one rainy afternoon, as I stepped out of a small café, soaked and shivering, he appeared.
He was older — maybe in his early thirties, with kind eyes and a gentle smile. He noticed me immediately, probably because of the way I clutched my coat around my belly, or maybe just because he saw the exhaustion etched deep into my face.
"Are you okay?" he asked softly.
I hesitated, then nodded. "I'm just looking for work."
He studied me for a moment, then said, "I own a restaurant nearby. We're always looking for help. What can you do?"
I blinked, surprised. "Anything? Cleaning, anything. I'll do anything."
He smiled wider. "Good. Come with me."
His restaurant was unlike anything I'd imagined — huge, gleaming with polished wood and sparkling glass. The scent of fresh herbs and sizzling spices filled the air. It was a place where people dressed in elegant clothes came to eat and laugh, worlds away from where I had been living.
I started as a cleaner. Bathrooms, floors, tables. Sometimes, I helped wash dishes. It was hard work, exhausting, but steady. And the pay was better than anything I'd had in months.
With each paycheck, I saved carefully. After a few weeks, I was able to rent a tiny room in a rundown building. It was cramped and smelled faintly of mildew, but it was mine.
Slowly, I began to breathe again.
I bought secondhand clothes from thrift shops — not just for me, but for the baby growing inside me. Every month, I picked up tiny shirts, soft socks, little hats. I felt a strange sort of hope wrapped up in those small things.
I also started visiting donation centers. They provided diapers, wipes, and sometimes formula. I was cautious not to rely too heavily on charity, but every little help made a difference.
The boss was kind — more than I'd dared hope. I watched for hidden motives, expecting strings attached, but there were none. He just wanted to help. And for that, I was endlessly grateful.
I spent those months quietly, working, saving, preparing. Every little step felt monumental. The fear hadn't left me, but there was a fragile thread of hope weaving through the darkness.
——
The day my water broke started like any other, but I could feel something different deep inside. A dull ache began creeping through my lower belly while I wiped down tables, the usual routine blending into a background hum. The restaurant was busy as always, the sounds of clinking plates, chattering customers, and sizzling pans wrapping around me like a suffocating blanket.
The cramps began to grow sharper. I clenched my jaw, trying to ignore the growing discomfort. My coworkers glanced at me occasionally but said nothing. None of them were friends. They never had been. Just strangers who shared the same cramped space for shifts, exchanging curt nods and polite smiles.
I forced myself to keep moving, wiping a table near the window. But then suddenly, warm liquid trickled down my leg. My heart leapt into my throat.
My water had broken.
Panic flooded me. I was alone. No family, no friends. Just me and this restaurant — a strange and cold place to bring a child into the world.
I scanned the room desperately, eyes flickering to the door.
Without thinking, I stepped out into the warm afternoon sun, my breath coming fast and shallow. I felt exposed, vulnerable, and utterly terrified.
Then, as if by fate, I spotted the owner — the man who had saved me months ago, the one who had given me a chance when no one else would.
He looked up from his phone, his brow furrowing when he saw the look on my face.
"Leila? Are you okay?" His voice was gentle but concerned.
I blinked back tears. "My water… it broke. I think I'm going into labor."
His eyes widened for a moment, then quickly filled with determination.
"Come with me. We're going to the hospital."
He didn't hesitate, guiding me to his car and helping me settle in gently. The ride was a blur — sirens, city streets, the growing ache in my belly. But he stayed calm, reassuring me with quiet words I barely heard over the storm of pain and fear inside me.
At the hospital, I was rushed inside. The nurses were kind but brisk, checking my vitals, preparing me for the labor ahead. I clenched the sides of the bed, gasping through wave after wave of contractions that shredded through me like fire.
It was the most excruciating experience of my life. Every moment was a test — a battle between despair and hope. The sound of my own ragged breaths, the steady voice of the nurse encouraging me, the cold sting of medical tools — it all blended into a surreal nightmare.
And then, finally, the moment came. The sharp, overwhelming push. And then — silence, broken only by the first weak cries of my daughter.
I held her close, tears spilling freely down my cheeks. Her tiny fingers curled around mine, her breath soft and warm against my skin. In that instant, everything else — the fear, the pain, the years of running — faded away, replaced by a fierce, unbreakable love.
But reality returned too soon.
A few days later, I stared at the hospital bill — a mountain of numbers that made my chest tighten. No insurance, no safety net. Just debt that would cling to me like a shadow for years to come.
Even now, three years later, the weight of that debt presses on me. I'm still paying it off, bit by bit, while working the same restaurant, scrubbing floors and washing dishes, chasing a future I barely dare imagine.
Thankfully, my boss has been kind enough to let me bring my daughter to work. I watch her quietly playing in the corner, her soft laughter a balm to my tired soul. It's hard — balancing work, motherhood, and studying — but I keep pushing forward. For her.